Kinship
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: Jacob and Eliot have a not-so-quiet talk in the brewpub afterhours. Twenty years is a long time to be apart, and there's a lot to discuss between the brothers. Family ain't easy. Ain't that the truth? (Sequel to "And the Benefit of Suffering")


Eliot heard the door whisper open behind him and bit back a sigh of irritation. _Dammit, Hardison. All you had to do was lock the front door._ "We're closed," he called without turning around, though he kept one eye on the shiny chrome surfaces where he could see the blurry reflection of the incomer.

"It's alright, I know the owners," a familiar voice answered.

His grip tightened reflexively on the dishrag, and he set down the glass that he'd moved perhaps a little harder than necessary. "Jake. What're you doing here? Thought you said you weren't going to see me again," he said, forcing the words to come out evenly. He'd had years upon years of practice, hiding what he felt from other people because even being suspected of going soft was a good way to end up dead.

"To be honest, I wasn't going to," Jacob replied bluntly, and a floorboard creaked, which meant he was eight steps away from the bar.

"Then why did you?" Eliot asked, glancing beneath the counter to make sure everything was stocked.

"Cassandra hit me."

 _That_ surprised him enough that he turned around, the rag still in one hand. Jacob stood there between two barstools with hands shoved in his pockets, looking so much like a fifteen-year-old boy just been told off and skulking about it that it ached a little, and sure enough, he was sporting a nice, natty black eye. As shiners went, it wasn't too bad, he could still see out of it, but it had to hurt regardless. Eliot tried to keep the mirth out of his voice as he leant forward over the bar and had marginal success in that area. "Well, I'll be damned, that does indeed look like the work of a pretty little hand. Take it that ain't normal?" he asked.

"Jones about shit himself," Jacob muttered, reaching up to touch the discoloured skin under his eye and wincing. "I think Jenkins was gonna cry, the old man looked damned proud of her. Baird didn't say anything, she was too surprised."

Eliot bit the inside of his mouth hard enough to draw blood so he didn't laugh. "So what'd you do?"

"What d'you mean, what'd I do? She's, like, four feet tall and weighs as much as a leaf dripping wet, what am I _gonna_ do?" Jacob snapped back defensively, folding both arms stubbornly across his chest.

"I meant, what'd you do to make her hit you?" he clarified, though he had a niggling feeling that he already knew.

His brother shifted his weight uncomfortably, the corners of his mouth turning down. "Everyone was askin' about you, an' I told 'em that I was done with you," he replied at last. "And Cassandra completely flew of the handle. Man, I ain't never seen her so angry before. Cold-cocked me one right in the eye and told me to get my ass down here and talk to you. Well, I'm here, an' I'm talking."

"What do you want from me, then? A gold star?" Eliot asked, unable to keep all the bite out of his tone.

"An explanation, for starters!"

"I'm a grown-ass man, Jake, I don't gotta explain myself to anybody." Anger began to curl its way into his chest, and Eliot relished its presence. Anger he could deal with. He and anger were old friends. It was a whole lot easier to handle than pain, especially that specific brand of pain that only came with family.

"A reason, then. Gimme one good reason why you just up and left for twenty goddamned years," Jacob snarled back.

He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. "You knew I was enlisting, it wasn't exactly a surprise."

"No, you're right, Eliot. The surprise was that after you left, you _never came back._ Not a single call, no e-mail, not even a fucking postcard. For all we knew, you were dead in some godforsaken desert on the other side of the world, pardon the hell out of me for being just a little pissed about that."

Eliot stared across the counter at Jacob, and noticed for the first time how different they really looked. He was the older twin by three minutes (and he'd never let Jake forget it, either) but this was the first time that his twin actually looked younger than him. There were fewer lines around his eyes, more openness to his expression, and he remembered what he'd told Nate once, about how killing wasn't just a one-way street. _I ain't seen that kid in ten years. And trust me, I go lookin'._ That was what Jacob looked like, himself ten years ago, before he'd started putting red in his ledger. That hot fizzle of fury that'd started up beneath his ribs simmered down, and he let out a slow breath.

"I have more than just one reason, Jay-Jay," he sighed, and Jacob recoiled like he'd been slapped at the use of his childhood nickname. "I got a hundred, hell, a thousand different reasons why I didn't come home. Maybe they're just excuses, I dunno, but don't stand there and act like I made the choice easily. You think I never wanted to come home? Think I never missed you? Or Mama, or the girls? Do you think all of that was _easy?"_ he demanded and felt a little stab of vindictive pleasure when he saw the guilt flicker across Jacob's face. "Exactly. So don't you stand there and question my choices, because you don't have the slightest idea about my reasons. Or the options I had to pick from. And while we're on the subject of reasons, why don't you tell me about some of _yours,_ Dr. Oliver Thompson? Or is it somebody else now, I don't remember."

Jacob flinched again. "That's different," he said, but his voice had lost some of its fire.

"Is it? I left, fine, but you lied to everybody's face for years. Nobody knew about me, but who's to say anybody even knew _you?"_ Eliot replied sharply.

For a moment, they were both quiet, the silence heavy and thick enough to cut through with a dull knife. Eliot counted his breathing in tandem with his heartbeat, determined not to be the first one to speak and wondering if his brother was about to walk away from him again. Finally, after what felt like a separate eternity all on its own, Jacob looked up at him. "You know what names I publish under?" he asked at last.

A breath he hadn't realised he'd held rushed out. "Yeah. Of course I do," Eliot replied.

"Hardison?" Jacob ventured.

"You'd be surprised at what he can find out about someone." That wasn't exactly true. He'd been keeping tabs on his family for years before he met Hardison or any of the crew, always from a distance, making sure they were safe. But there was no reason for anybody to know that.

The corner of Jacob's mouth curved up just the slightest bit, and some of the cold-iron tension that'd coiled up tight in Eliot's chest loosened off. "Can I get a drink?" he asked quietly.

Eliot fished in his pocket and tossed him a set of keys. "Go lock the front door first. We're closed." He reached beneath the counter and took out two glasses, pouring them both two fingers of the good whiskey (don't tell Nate) as Jacob locked the door and shuffled back to the bar, sitting down on one of the tall stools. "So...tell me again how you got beat up by a girl," he said, sliding one glass over.

"Shut up, Eli."

"Make me."


End file.
